


the truth in a masquerade

by Iverna



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Swan - Freeform, Captain Swan AU - Freeform, Dancing, F/M, Masquerade, Sword-fighting, Vampires, a little of everything, also some smut, witch!emma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:00:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25596916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iverna/pseuds/Iverna
Summary: Emma is determined to save Wendy Darling; Killian is just as determined to protect her. The trouble is, neither of them know what the other is really up to, and they don’t know who to trust. So what do you do when your former ally, partner, and lover is the one thing standing in your way?You dance. You fight. And you don’t get distracted.At least, that’s the theory.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 25
Kudos: 84
Collections: Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2020, CaptainSwan Supernatural Summer





	the truth in a masquerade

_“And, after all, what is a lie? ‘Tis but the truth in a masquerade.” — Alexander Pope_

* * *

The mansion was almost a stereotype. Darkly opulent, with the pillared hallway, the mullioned windows, and the understated decor that spoke to both old taste and money, the only thing that pulled it into the twenty-first century were the electric lights and the comfortable temperature that could only come from air conditioning.

Emma looked around as she walked along the hallway, noting the doors, the other hallway that went off at a right angle to this one and probably led to the stairs, the window catches that looked like they locked.

Her stomach twisted. It was a high-class, high-security place, exactly the kind of place where a rich bastard might keep a blood slave without anyone daring to suspect him.

The ballroom was even brighter than the hallway, a chandelier glittering overhead, with flowers in ornate vases all around the room. Music that she tentatively identified as a waltz swept through the room, that weird horror carnival mix of cheery and mournful. The deep red velvet curtains and black, wrought-metal wall sconces lent the scene a sombre air, and Emma had to swallow back her nerves.

She was safe. It was a masked ball, not a private feeding party or an orgy. And if it turned into either of those things... well, that would just make her job easier.

She adjusted the mask over her eyes and drew herself up.

_Get in. Do the job. Get out._

The job had changed over the years. The mantra had not.

Emma’s experience with fancy parties and balls was limited, but the mask helped. She was able to drift through the crowd, skirting past the dancing couples in the middle of the room, smiling and exchanging pleasantries with a few people at the buffet table.

The way some of them looked at her made her feel like she was _on_ the buffet table. She tried to stay unobtrusive, but as a human at a vampire ball, she was bound to draw attention.

She’d expected it to take a while before she could positively identify the host—the point of a masked ball was, after all, that no one knew who anyone else was. Or, in practice, at least pretended not to know. Asking around was definitely a _faux pas_.

But there was no need. Her eyes were drawn almost immediately across the room, where a dark-haired man stood talking to a servant. He was dressed in an old-fashioned, immaculately tailored dark red tailcoat over a black shirt and waistcoat, and an ornate black mask covered his eyes. Tight black pants and high boots completed the outfit. He was neither especially tall nor physically imposing; of average height and build, he might have been unremarkable if it hadn’t been for the wicked curve to his smile, and the way he commanded attention, as though his presence was much bigger than he was.

Emma’s heart skipped a beat, much as she tried to keep it steady. It was him. His eyes were obscured, but she recognised that sharp jaw line, the way his hair swept up and to the side, the dark stubble that would prickle against her skin if he kissed her.

Killian Jones.

“Son of a bitch,” she muttered as she moved past the buffet table, skirting the dance floor and trying to blend into the crowd. Trying to watch him without looking over at him, while her fists clenched and her heart thundered.

She’d expected it. Killian Jones wasn’t exactly a common name.

Even so, she’d hoped that there’d been a mistake. Maybe someone else was using his name, with his consent or not, or maybe the man at the auction had given her a wrong name on purpose and this was all a colossal misunderstanding. For all that she loved being right, she’d hoped that she was wrong. But she had been wrong—about him. How the hell had she missed that he was a damn _vampire_?

In hindsight, the hints were there. The old-fashioned manners, the fact that he was three hundred years old. Cursed, he’d said. She supposed that was a way to put it. She’d just assumed that he meant a magical curse, and he’d never elaborated.

Even so, she reminded herself, consciously unclenching her hands and stretching her fingers, him being a vampire didn’t mean anything. It could still be a mistake. She didn’t know whether Wendy Darling was really here. She’d known Killian for a while now and, vampire or not, criminal or not, she would have said that dealing in blood slaves was beyond him.

She swallowed back her recriminations, and her dread, and the quiet sense of betrayal that hurt more than she cared to admit. She needed to find out the truth, whatever it was.

_Do the job._

She was trying to decide on a plan of attack when he nodded at the stout man he’d been talking to, evidently dismissing him, and moved.

Towards her.

She moved away to the right, and he adjusted his course, walking with that familiar rolling sailor’s swagger. Beneath the mask, he was smiling.

Emma was halfway through planning an exit strategy when she remembered that she didn’t need one. She wasn’t trying to get away from him. The entire point of coming here was to get information, and he was the best source of it.

So she let herself catch his eye, and stopped so he could catch up.

“Milady,” he said, and if she’d had any doubts as to his identity, that would have killed them. That voice, that accent, those lips forming the words—

“Hi,” she said, before she remembered about balls and manners and etiquette and proper greetings.

His smile widened. “Hi. What an unexpected pleasure.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What is?”

“Meeting such a beautiful stranger,” he said smoothly. “Who I’m reasonably certain is not on the guest list.”

He was right about that. The invitation she’d presented at the gate was addressed to Belle French, not her, and she’d all but expected him to notice it at some point. It galled her that he might think that she’d finagled her way in just to see him, but at least that way he wouldn’t suspect her. She smiled a flirtatious challenge. “How can you know that when you don’t know my name?”

He cocked his head. “Touché. Far be it from me to question my good fortune, in any case.”

“Charmer,” she said, before she could stop herself.

“I try.” He bowed.

It took effort not to glower at him. Yeah, he tried. And he succeeded far too often, as far as she was concerned.

Not today. Never again, if she could help it.

* * *

She was here. Killian wasn’t sure if he wanted to thank his lucky stars or curse them for it. He’d spent about five minutes telling himself that it was wishful thinking, that she wasn’t invited, that he was being stupid, before Smee had come over and told him that she had come with Belle’s invitation.

That was one on his list of possibilities for Pan to slip in. Unlikely, given her connection to Gold, but possible because of it, too. But for it to be Emma Swan?

And it _was_ her. She couldn’t be here, it made no sense for her to be here, and the timing was atrocious, so of course it was her.

It couldn’t be Pan’s doing, though. She knew what a bastard he was. She wouldn’t ally herself with someone like that. There had to be another reason.

He couldn’t afford to get distracted, but he couldn’t ignore her either. She _hadn’t_ been invited, and vampire masquerades were hardly her idea of a fun time, so what the hell what she doing here? “Are you enjoying the evening?”

“Sure,” Emma said, and it was definitely her—the voice, the wry, casual tone, the soft pink lips, that chin he’d traced with his forefinger. Her eyes were hidden by a silver, feathery mask, which matched the filigree detail on her dark red dress. Half of her blond hair was swept up in an elegant bun, secured with a glittering silver clasp. “Aside from feeling like I should stay away from the buffet table in case someone thinks I’m on the menu.”

He bit back a comment about looking delicious. Given the circumstances, that was probably in bad taste. Even if it was true—in the figurative sense, anyway. “Then allow me to volunteer my services,” he said. “If you want anything, I’m happy to fetch it for you, or accompany you.”

She didn’t quite know what to do with that. Emma was a lot of things, but refined wasn’t one of them. He’d always liked that about her.

“Thanks,” she said. “But I didn’t mean—I’m not hungry.”

He grinned at her. He couldn’t help it. “In that case, perhaps you’d do me the honour of a dance?”

She hesitated. Then her chin came up, in that way she had when she was steeling herself, and she took his outstretched arm. “Sure.”

They joined the waltz that was just starting up again, Killian settling his hand on her waist as she laid one of hers on his shoulder, the other on his hook.

“Nice to see you again, love,” he murmured as he began to lead her through the steps.

“Yeah? Can’t say the same,” she shot back. “You could’ve mentioned the whole vampire thing.”

Damn. For a moment there, he’d all but forgotten. “Oh. That.”

“Yeah. That.”

Maybe that was why she’d come. It made a kind of sense. Emma wasn’t one to let things go. “Not prejudiced, are you?”

She glared at him; he could see it even through the mask. “I just like to know what I’m dealing with.”

“We’ve all got secrets,” he said easily, twirling her past him and back into his arms. “And as I recall, you were rather insistent on not sharing.”

He kept his tone nonchalant, but he immediately wished he hadn’t said it. It was probably a bad idea to allude to their shared night at all. He didn’t want her thinking that he still thought about it. Trying too hard to be nonchalant about something was a dead giveaway that it mattered, and he knew it, and Emma was smart enough to pick up on that too.

Then again, maybe mentioning it so casually implied that he _didn’t_ care. Going out of his way to avoid the subject would probably be a giveaway too, right?

He wished he knew.

He’d never been good at short-term affairs. Oh, he could flirt with the best of them and sweep a lady off her feet and into his bed, but he never let it get that far. He didn’t know how people did it, get so close to someone and share that kind of intimacy while holding most of themselves back. He’d tried it once, and Tink still liked to laugh about he was the only guy who’d wanted to cuddle and talk, who had stayed in touch. He treasured her friendship and had no regrets, but he knew that wasn’t really how it was supposed to work out.

But he’d given in when Emma had kissed him and looked at him with that half-amused, half-challenging grin, as if she’d expected him to reject her. He couldn’t reject her. Couldn’t walk away from the storm of feelings she caused. He’d wanted her more than he’d wanted anyone in centuries, and if he was honest, he still did.

Typical. And stupid.

He should have walked away. Should have left, at least, before she could settle against him, before he was tempted to wrap his arms around her and kiss her temple, before the contented, warm glow of it could sink in.

But he hadn’t. Because he hadn’t wanted to. He’d never been good at resisting temptation, either.

When he’d woken, she’d been gone. And it had hurt, like he’d known it would, a familiar ache settling in his chest.

Damn her. And him. Mostly him, really.

At least his words seemed to rattle her, rather than prompt the knowing, smug smile he’d been afraid of. “That’s—I—” She glared at him again. “You _know_ that’s not what I meant.”

He shrugged. “I suppose we all have different things we don’t like to share.”

He heard the bitterness in his own voice that time, and cursed inwardly.

Luckily, Emma didn’t seem to notice. She was still glaring at him, and while he didn’t relish that, it was better than if she’d been all cool disdain.

She didn’t like what he’d said. But she couldn’t argue with it, and he watched as she opened her mouth, realised it, and shut it again. He had a sudden, powerful urge to pull her off the dance floor and into a room somewhere where he could explain, try and talk things out... but that would be stupid. This entire evening was a trap for Pan or whatever hired crony he chose to send. He’d have to explain that, too, and he didn’t want to drag her into this mess. He didn’t want her to talk him out of it, either.

Besides which, he owed her nothing. He wasn’t the one who’d walked away. He’d just let her go.

“Guess we do,” she said eventually, and her voice was cool now, her expression calm again.

He swung her around and back into his arms, settling his hand at her waist again. He could feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her dress, and tried, and failed, not to remember the last time he’d touched her there.

Tried, and failed, not to want that again.

* * *

The dance had been a tactical error. Sure, it was a chance to talk to him, to try and coax or provoke him into giving her some information, but she wasn’t doing a very good job of that. It was taking most of her concentration to follow the dance without tripping over her feet or stepping on his, and keeping a respectable distance between them.

Something about Killian Jones always invited closeness. Whenever she was around him, she’d find herself leaning towards him, touching his arm, nudging him when they walked beside each other. She’d catch herself and pull back again, but only after she’d already done it. It was infuriating.

He wasn’t gloating, either. She’d half-expected him to make some comment about needing to see him again, but he didn’t even look triumphant. She wasn’t sure how he looked, actually. She wished she could take his mask off.

Killian gave her a little nudge, and she realised that she’d almost missed her cue to twirl past him again.

“Lost in memories?” he asked, smirking.

She knew what he was getting at, and he was closer to the mark than she would have liked. “Nope,” she said. “Dancing’s just not my thing.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“Should’ve. Fair is fair.”

He understood that, too, and she saw the way his face darkened even under the mask. It stirred a savage kind of satisfaction in her chest.

Anger was good. Anger was easy. She could handle that. Better to provoke him than let him charm her again.

“I think you _are_ a little prejudiced, love,” he said.

“I’m not.”

She wasn’t. Sure, she didn’t like vampires much as whole, but she didn’t like humans as a whole, either. She could make exceptions. His nature didn’t bother her.

It just made anything other than a fling impossible. Even aside from the whole blood thing, which she wasn’t overly keen on. Vampires were immortal, and she was not. You couldn’t have a lasting relationship with someone who was already many times your age, and destined to outlive you.

Not that she _wanted_ a relationship. It was a relief, really, she told herself.

But he shouldn’t say the things he’d said, do the things he’d done, held her like that and looked at her like that, if it was just a one-time thing. That was against the rules. It was unfair.

Okay, so she’d broken some rules too, but those were _her_ rules. One-night stands got messy when you couldn’t avoid seeing the guy again, everyone knew that. And she had known that she’d see him again.

But she could break her own rules if she wanted.

She still wasn’t sure why she’d done it. It wasn’t like he was irresistible, or she was incapable of rational decisions when an attractive guy was around. But they were both adults, and while they weren’t close friends, they’d always got along and had a sort of understanding between them. And maybe... maybe she wouldn’t have minded seeing him again, kissing him again, getting carried away like that again.

But that wasn’t in the cards.

“No?” he asked. “Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” she gritted out, “is I don’t like being lied to.”

“I never lied to you.”

She couldn’t argue with that. He hadn’t lied, not really. He’d never claimed to be human, or anything else. “Yeah, well.” As retorts went, it wasn’t her best one.

The dance ended then, and Killian let her go, his hand slipping from her waist. Her skin tingled where he’d touched her, and she felt cold, deprived.

How did he do that? She was usually so good at keeping her feelings under control. If a guy was shady or plain bad, it didn’t matter how good-looking or charming he was, it didn’t affect her.

Maybe it was because she didn’t have any actual evidence yet. She needed proof that he was holding Wendy here, that he really wasn’t what he’d seemed. Maybe then her heart would get the memo that this one was a bad idea, and she had no business missing his touch or the way his arms had wrapped around her or—

She looked around. Killian had stepped back a little, but he was still watching her. A vampire woman nearby was giving him the kind of look that said she didn’t care whether he was a bad idea or not. Emma swallowed.

“’scuse me,” she said, nodding at him.

“S—Hey.” He made as it to reach for her, let his hand drop. “I’m sorry.”

She drew herself up. “Yeah. Me too.”

Then she turned and walked away from the dancing as the next waltz began. When she looked back, Killian was dancing with the other vampire, and he was smiling, bright and carefree.

It made her chest ache, and her fists clench again. Right. She’d tried the subtle approach, and it had gone exactly as well as she should’ve expected. She wasn’t good at subtle.

But he was distracted now—and with any luck, he would be for quite a while. Time to try things her way.

* * *

Killian moved through the dance almost absent-mindedly, relying on muscle memory while his mind and eyes were busy. It was easy, now that Emma was no longer here to distract him. Keeping up the conversation with Lady Tremaine was a simple matter of polite nods, affirmations, and occasional bits of flattery. The woman loved to hear herself talk.

Killian was good at watching people without appearing to watch them. He had his people on the job in case anyone got past him, but he was quite sure he could handle it himself. If Pan or his agent showed up here, Killian would spot them.

He caught sight of Emma on occasion, much as he tried to ignore her. He wanted to go after her, still driven to explain, to set the record straight. It wasn’t her anger that bothered him, it was the hint of hurt and betrayal that she’d tried to hide behind it. And even aside from that, he didn’t like being at odds with her, he never had. It was that damnable sense of honour she had. It called to his own, made him want to reach out and reconcile and, so help him, do the right thing.

Maybe once he’d dealt with Pan and Gold and everything, he could find her and explain. Maybe it would make a difference.

Experience suggested that it wouldn’t. People didn’t usually care about reasons.

_Emma did_ , a voice at the back of his mind whispered. And she’d call him an idiot for this one.

He slammed a door on the thought.

The dance ended, and he left Lady Tremaine with a smile and a compliment that he forgot as soon as he said it. He turned, his gaze sweeping across the room, purposely unconcerned.

Emma had drifted over to one of the side doors. She stopped, and even from his periphery, he recognised her in the way she suddenly drew up, looked around... and slipped from the room.

_Bathroom_ , was his first thought.

_Idiot_ , was his second.

His heart was sinking into the pit of his stomach, hard and icy. His hand felt cold. It couldn’t be her. It made no damn sense. He would have known if she were one of Pan’s, wouldn’t he?

Would he?

She had come in using Belle’s invitation. And while she had a strong moral compass, she wasn’t above doing what it took to get a job done. Case in point, she’d allied herself with him before. 

And it wouldn’t be the first time she’d bested him.

But, he promised himself furiously as he signalled Smee and casually slipped through a different door, it would bloody well be the last.

* * *

Emma had no idea where Wendy would be kept, but she knew where to start looking. The basement was the obvious place, and Killian was clever, so she headed down the hallway she’d noted before, hoping that it did lead upstairs. The music followed her, vaguely foreboding as it echoed down the hallway, and she couldn’t help thinking that the atmosphere would lend itself to a horror movie. She wondered whether it was on purpose. With Killian, you never knew.

She’d been right about the layout, at least. As she rounded the corner, she found herself in a wide atrium-like room, with a chandelier hanging in the centre. Dual curved staircases leading up to a balcony, lined with elaborately-carved banisters. From the landing above, a hallway stretched off to either side, lost to darkness.

She’d almost made it to the stairs when a shadow moved up on the landing. Her heart jumped as a man stepped out from a hallway above, his movements almost lazy. Recognition was a sharp pulse in her throat, consternation tinged with fear an icy claw in her gut.

He’d taken off his mask, his blue eyes cold as they met hers. He had left his coat and waistcoat behind, too, leaving him all in black, the loose shirt with its wide sleeves making for an interesting contrast with his tight pants.

His smile was like a knife, sharp and predatory.

“Are you lost?”

“Not exactly,” Emma countered, even as her mind raced. She’d expected to encounter servants or even guards. She hadn’t planned on running into Killian. He was supposed to be busy.

He leaned against the banister, his casual manner not quite hiding the tension in him. “I knew you’d show up eventually. Of course, I didn’t expect it to be _you_.”

Cards on the table. “So you know what I’m here for.”

“Oh, aye,” he said softly.

“Great.” She cocked her head with a confidence she didn’t entirely feel. “If you could just point me in the right direction, I’ll be on my way.”

He drew his cutlass with the barest of sounds, a soft scraping of steel against leather. “Over my dead body.”

“If that’s what you want.” She reached for the zipper hidden in the side of her dress. The skirt was long and wide, a sweeping concoction of silk and glittering embroidery, but it was impractical for this. Luckily, she’d planned ahead.

The skirt fell away, pooling around her ankles. Under it, she wore a much shorter one, little more than a black negligée.

And, belted around her thigh, a sword.

Killian watched her, eyes flaring with heat. Then he leered. “Impressive. I suppose it’s too much to hope that you have any more...” his eyes swept up and down her body in blatant, shameless appraisal, his tongue running over the corner of his bottom lip, “... surprises to reveal?”

Anger spiked, and she wanted to punch him. It was the kind of comment he would have made a year ago, when they’d only just met. By now, she knew that it was defensive flirting, crude and crass and designed to shock and distract. It was how he spoke to his enemies. She hated it.

She grinned at him, not bothering to hide her anger, and drew her sword. “Come closer and find out.”

He swung his sword in a salute. At least, she thought it was a salute until she felt a whisper of magic all around her, and the floor glowed. She looked down, chagrin flooding her like ice water, and realised she was standing in a pentagram. A cantrip designed to trap and hold. It was a good one, too, and considering Killian’s own lack of magic, it must have been expensive.

She looked back up at him, smirked, summoned a little wisp of magic—and stepped over the edge.

* * *

Killian felt his eyes widen. That wasn’t possible. Or rather, it shouldn’t be possible, even with Emma’s knack for doing impossible things. The cantrip was made to contain demons and darkness. It would have held Pan himself, had he shown. It would certainly hold anyone associated with him. Killian knew that. He had seen it work. It should have worked.

Unless—the thought was like ice. Unless Emma hadn’t been lying about who she was.

In which case, why in blazes was she working for Pan? Or, given that association with the man should have been enough to make the cantrip work—was she even working for him?

“Nice try,” Emma said in that dry tone he knew so well. “You know that doesn’t work on people like me.”

“Yes, well done.” He made her a sarcastic little bow. “Let’s try again, then. Why are you here?”

She looked him straight in the eye. “I’m here for Wendy Darling.”

He held her gaze. “She isn’t taking visitors.”

Emma huffed out a breath and raised her sword. A cutlass similar to his, and he recognised it. It had belonged to him once, after all. “We’ll see about that.”

She started up the stairs, looking like his wildest dream in that dress, with the sword in her hand and her eyes blazing. In the distance, waltz music still played, like a mockery of the dance they’d shared.

Killian stayed where he was, keeping the tip of his blade pointed at her chest, trying to ignore the way his heart was beginning to hammer. He didn’t want this. He’d expected Pan, or one of his minions. Emma was a surprise, and a mystery, and perhaps most aggravatingly, not someone he wanted to hurt.

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to avoid it. He’d fought against her before, and though he’d thrown that fight, he almost hadn’t had to.

But he couldn’t step aside, either. He couldn’t give Wendy up, not when he was so close. She was his key to vengeance, finally, _finally_ , within his grasp.

She lunged up when she was almost to the top, a blow he parried easily. He had the advantage, but she had magic; one leap had her on top of the banister, two more brought her up and past him onto the landing. He whirled around, his blade meeting hers again as she swung at him.

* * *

_Emma’s back hit the wall with a dull thunk. Killian breathed an apology, but before he could finish it, her mouth was back on his and she was pulling him flush against her. The kiss was urgent, fuelled by need—and then, suddenly, it became gentle. He leaned back a little, nipped at her lips again, his nose brushing against hers. Her arms were braced on his shoulders, her hands tangled in his hair, carding through the dark strands._

_“Don’t be,” Emma said, a breathless whisper._

_“Don’t be what?”_

_“Sorry.” She pulled at him again. He all but fell against her, pressing close, feeling the warmth of her all around him. He’d lost track of how long he’d wanted this; sometimes he thought it had started when he’d met her, fierce and gorgeous and refusing to believe his lies._

_The past few weeks had been a new kind of torture, spending so much time with her, getting to know her, and the surprise of realising that she knew him, too. It had been a long time since he’d felt known. So long that he’d thought himself no longer capable of feeling like this, thought this part of him had died with Milah. For a while, he hadn’t felt anything other than anger and despair._

_And then, her lips on his, her arms pulling him closer, and that feeling of leaving the whole world behind and getting lost in her and somehow, impossibly, finding himself there._

_They traded more kisses, pushing and pulling, tearing at each other’s clothes as they made their way further into the bedroom. It wasn’t enough. He felt half-crazed, desperate to keep touching her, to feel her lips brush his again, her tongue tangling with his. It was more than he’d dreamed, more than he’d dared hope or thought possible, but not enough._

_He was already craving more._

* * *

“You know she’s a person.” Emma glowered at Killian past their crossed blades. She hadn’t felt all that angry before, but now that he had a sword in his hand, now that she could hit him, she was fuming.

It was almost a relief, after everything she’d felt in the ballroom. “Wendy,” she added. “The one you _bought_. People aren’t property.”

Blue eyes flashed. “I’m well aware.”

“But you’re okay with it?” Emma demanded. “Blood slavery is illegal for a reason.”

For a moment, she thought she saw hurt in his eyes, but if it was there, it was gone in an instant. He sneered, a grimace that leeched the handsomeness from his face and left nothing but anger and threat. “I’m not the one working for a demon.”

There was only one person he called that: Peter Pan. He thought she was working for Pan? It almost gave her pause, and she wanted to demand why the hell he’d think that, but she was too furious to care.

She raised the hilt of her sword, trying to get more leverage. “I’m not working for anyone.”

“No?” He withdrew, blade whirling around, and she brought hers down just in time. “Then how did you know to come here?”

She wasn’t about to tell him that. “People talk.”

“No, they don’t.” He was cold in his fury. She’d seen him like that before, knew that single-minded anger all too well, and she hated it. She was good at spotting lies and half-truths, and his anger was like that. It was real enough, but it lied about all the pain and hurt it was hiding. She hated it, and she hated that she cared enough to hate it.

It was worse now that she knew him better. His anger was the facade he showed the world, but in the time since she’d met him, he’d shown it less and less.

They weren’t friends, exactly, but she’d begun to think, to hope, and then to know, that there was a chance for him to turn things around. To abandon his fury, and his vengeance, and build a new life. She’d thought that he had started down that path.

Had she been wrong about that, too?

“I’m good at finding people,” she told him. He swung at her, a high overhead blow that she blocked easily. She tried to counter, but he predicted it. By the time her sword came around, his was there to meet it.

She was already out of breath, could feel herself getting more defensive. That wasn’t good. She strove for calm, tried to call on her magic. Her insides were in turmoil, and it was like trying to catch a grain of sand in a hurricane. Still, she managed to enhance her aura a little, just as he attacked again. A flare of warning—a feint. She moved to block it, but when he let the blade glance off hers and swing around, she caught the blow easily.

“I know she’s here,” she said. “And—come on, Killian. Why are you doing this?”

For a moment, she thought he might finally explain. Then he shook his head and retreated back behind a glare. “You can talk all you like. You aren’t laying a finger on her. Nor me, not anyone else.”

“I’m not here to lay a finger on you.”

He smirked, eyes briefly dipping down along her body. “Sure about that?”

She smirked back, just as sultry, just as meaningless. “Why, you wanna change my mind?”

He scoffed, the trace of humour gone. “As if I could.”

If she hadn’t known better, she would have said there was a note of wistfulness in it. Like maybe he might want to change her mind. Like maybe he would’ve been up for a repeat of that night, too.

She had thought to get it out of her system. Stupid, as she knew now. There was no getting Killian Jones out of her system. If anything, it had made it worse. Now that she knew how he kissed her, held her, looked at her...

They had clashed and fought so many times that she’d expected their love-making—sex, she corrected herself angrily—to be similar. It hadn’t been. Not even close. He’d been considerate, generous, so gently affectionate it made her soul ache. And so help her, she’d loved every second.

* * *

_His expression was almost reverent as he looked at her, hand stroking idly along her side, leaving little, sparkling thrills in the wake of his touch. The feverish want had given way to something calmer, and Emma felt it settle deep within her. She ran a hand down his back, felt him shiver._

_He settled between her legs as she lay back on the bed, caressing her thigh, looking up at her through inky black lashes. He smiled, a wicked curl to his lips, and she grinned back, feeling lazy and carefree and a deep, almost scary kind of glad._

_And maybe a little bit impatient, too._

_“You’re a tease, Hook,” she said as he bent his head and kissed the inside of her thigh, opposite where his hand was stroking her skin._

_“Aye.” His breath ghosted over her skin, and she bit back a moan. “Shall I stop?”_

_“Please don’t.”_

_He hummed, fingers inching closer to where she needed his touch most, and then he kissed her there, and she stopped thinking._

_She couldn’t have said that he was the most skilled lover she’d ever had. She had no idea. She couldn’t remember anything to compare this to. All she knew was that it was good, it felt good, and he was into it, making hungry, appreciative sounds as he licked at her, and she closed her eyes and melted into sensation. Heavy, aching pleasure was building up inside her, stoked higher with every kiss, every lick, every sound he made. He groaned, the rumble of it vibrating against her skin, and she fisted her hands in the sheets. “Killian.”_

_“Mhmmm.” He pulled away briefly, breathed, “Say that again.”_

_She opened her eyes. He wasn’t looking at her—not at her face, anyway. He was intent on what he was doing, his dark brows slightly furrowed in concentration, breathing hard as he licked a long, slow path over her flesh._

_“Oh god.” It came out unbidden, half under her breath. “Killian.”_

_He looked up at her then, as if he could tell that she was watching him. He had a wild, wrecked look on his face, eyes dark, hair tousled. And then he grinned, a slow, wicked curve to his mouth, and bent his head again, and she damn near forgot her own name._

* * *

Emma had improved since the last time they’d duelled, but her lack of experience still showed. Killian saw the coming blow in the way she shifted her weight, knew it was a feint from the way she didn’t fully lean into it, and barely bothered to block before catching the follow-up swipe to his side. A more seasoned fighter would have noticed his lacklustre block and pushed past it, turning the feint into a real attack, but Emma stuck to the original plan.

Good to know.

“I thought you hero types had a code,” he said as he pushed into the bind. Emma pushed back, her blade scraping against his as they both tested, waited, looked for the opening. “Do the right thing, and all that.”

Her green eyes were narrowed in concentration, and a fair amount of anger. “What would _you_ know about that?”

“Ah, yes, the other thing you all do so well: judgement.” He knew there was a bitter tint to his smile, and didn’t try to hide it. He’d been the target of her anger before, but never like this. Much as he hated it, the fact that she’d fallen for his ruse, believed him capable of dealing in slaves, cut him deeper than he would have liked. He was a bastard, sure, but not _that_ much of one. He’d thought that she knew him.

Then again, he’d thought that he knew her, too. “Tell me, is the holier-than-thou attitude an entry requirement, or does it come naturally?”

She smiled back, humourless, her jaw set. “Only around people I’m holier than.”

That was rich, coming from her. And he would have scoffed, if it weren’t for the distinct sense that she meant it. There was a righteousness to her fury that rang true. Emma wasn’t above breaking the law or doing morally questionable things, but she felt guilty about them, not righteous. This particular flavour of determination usually came when she was doing the right thing.

She wasn’t working for Pan. This was Emma on a mission, and whatever it was, it was personal.

Which meant that _if_ Pan had heard about this and was coming or sending someone for Wendy, he had another intruder on his hands. But that was all right. He’d taken precautions. All the same, he should probably end this fight sooner rather than later.

He brought his sword up a little, scraping it towards the tip of hers. She was too late to react; he found the leverage he needed and pushed her blade down.

Emma pulled back into low guard, the movement made a little clumsy by her hurry, her face set.

She knew that the odds were against her here; she was good enough at this to realise that. And yet she was here anyway, determined to keep fighting. To get to Wendy—not for any personal gain, but because she thought it was the right thing to do.

Because she thought him the worst kind of bastard.

It made him furious. He’d proven himself, hadn’t he? He had chosen to side with her when he didn’t have to, and they had worked together, and worked well. They understood each other, or at least, he had thought so. They’d been allies, partners... and for one night, lovers.

The memory of it hung over him, and refused to be dispelled. He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to _want_. Emma was scowling at him, hair beginning to unravel from its elegant bun, angry and resolute and glorious. She usually kept her feelings guarded, but she never hid her fury. He knew what emotion looked on those features. And, that night, he would have sworn that she’d trusted him, that everything she’d felt had been genuine.

* * *

_She looked into his eyes as he slid into her, wordless and somehow saying more than she’d ever said to him. She was warm, slick, perfect, and he savoured every moment of it. Her eyelids fluttered closed as he settled, both of her arms still wrapped around him, and he bent down to kiss her again._

_She gasped when he began to move, her soft moans urging him on. He hadn’t thought she’d be a talker, and she wasn’t, but she said plenty with those soft sounds and the way she kept pulling him closer, kissing him, stroking his shoulders, his arms, his cheek._

_He picked up the pace because it was too much, he felt too much, so he moved faster, harder, but it didn’t help because she clutched at him, fingernails digging into his skin..._

_Their eyes caught, and he forgot to breathe at the look on her face. He’d longed, oh, he’d longed for her to look at him like that, with warmth and want and affection. Her cheeks flushed, her lips kiss-swollen, her green eyes warm and filled with bright softness._

_He broke, dropping a kiss to her temple, her cheek, her lips. He rocked his hips against her, into her, and she matched his movements with a fervour that almost undid him right there._

_And he knew that this was what he would remember, that it would haunt him, the way she looked at him, the feeling of her hands on his skin, the soft, safe glow of coming home._

* * *

He was toying with her. Emma could see it in the way he kept parrying, waited for her to attack, took the safe option instead of the risk. It wasn’t in Killian’s nature to fight defensively, so it had to be strategy.

Her temper rose, and she tried to wrestle it back. She had to stay on balance. She couldn’t let him infuriate her; that way lay impatience, and mistakes, and getting stabbed. Bad enough that she kept getting distracted by the way he moved, muscles flexing under his skin, pants clinging to his legs and ass, that damned shirt draping over his shoulders just so.

It was dawning on her that this might have been a bad idea. The music echoing from the ballroom made a perverse soundtrack for the scene, a reminder of their dance that grated on her nerves. She felt raw, her feelings too close to the surface. She’d never been good at wrangling them, and burying them was no good, not if she wanted her magic to work.

She stabbed towards Killian’s chest, feeling frustration boil up even as she did it. He deflected it easily, and she summoned her magic and _pushed_.

Nothing happened. There was no answering rush in her veins. Killian didn’t even blink.

There was no magic without emotion, as Regina loved to remind her. And her feelings were in turmoil—anger, hurt, and more, all swirling around inside her. Protecting herself was one thing; hurting him was quite another. She didn’t want to care, but she did. Enough to be furious, enough to be hurt, and enough to want answers.

Killian retreated down the stairs, taking them backwards without so much as a stumble, the bastard. She feinted an overhead swing, turned it into another stab, trying not to let on how much concentration it was costing her to keep her footing. He batted her blade aside and leapt onto the banister, effectively vaulting it without bracing himself.

She’d seen him do things like that, those acrobatic sailor’s skills more than making up for his lack of hand. Maybe that should have been a hint that he wasn’t who he said he was—

She caught herself mid-thought. Yeah, he was light on his feet, nimble, and stronger than he looked. But he wasn’t superhumanly fast, and he lacked that rock-like strength that made vampires so annoying to fight. He should have been able to bat her blade aside without breaking a sweat, leverage or no.

Why wasn’t he using that?

She vaulted over the banister after him, sword arcing through the air as she went. He had just turned, and caught her blade with his. She let her momentum carry her forward into the bind, forcing him back a step.

“Ready to surrender?”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you.” He grinned at her past their crossed blades, blue eyes blazing. He was breathing a little harder, his cheeks and neck tinged pink with exertion, and up this close, she could feel his body heat. Emma was just awarding herself a point for making that happen when her thoughts stuttered again.

Vampires did not breathe hard. And the only time they were flushed and warm was after feeding, because they had no blood of their own, no beating heart.

Some of it could be faked, all of it could be explained—but not when he’d gone from pale to flushed as she watched, without drinking a single drop of blood. Come to think of it—

Her stomach dropped as the penny did.

_Son of a bitch._

* * *

_She lay curled into Killian’s side, her head on his chest, her legs tangled with his. He had pulled her close and she’d let him—a bad idea, but she was sated and warm and happy and wanted to stay that way for just a little while longer._

_She let her hand stroke across his chest, through the coarse dark hair there, over warm skin. His heart beat against her palm, faster than normal after all the exertion._

_And he sure had exerted himself. She smirked at the thought and turned to press a kiss against his skin. Her mind caught up with her as soon as she did it, and she felt stupid, but then his arm tightened around her and he made a sound between a hum and a sigh that sounded so damn happy that she kissed him again before settling back against him._

_She’d done this often enough to know that first-time sex with someone was never perfect, but she definitely couldn’t fault him for lack of effort. Or enthusiasm._

_Or much else, if she was honest. Maybe a little room for improvement in—_

_She cut herself off even as want coiled low in her belly. There would be no improvement. Because this was not going to happen again. She wasn’t going to think about that. They hadn’t talked about it, and she was not going to expect more, she was not going to be that girl who hoped it meant something._

_Even if it felt like it did._

* * *

In hindsight, it was obvious. She really should have known. He was every bit as human as she was. And that meant... that meant...

_Nothing_ , she told herself.

_Liar_ , came the answer.

Emma let Killian win the bind, withdrawing quickly and bringing her sword around the other way, but he was too fast. He blocked her swing easily, and she stepped back into guard, scowling at him past the relief that was cascading through her. She had no reason to feel relieved, none at all.

“You’re not a vampire,” she said.

His lip twisted. “Perceptive, aren’t you?”

“What are you, really?” she demanded, just to be sure.

He grinned. “A dashing rapscallion.”

He darted forward and attacked; she diverted the blow and stepped around him, trying to get close enough for a counter. Once again, he was too fast, easily deflecting her blade as he turned with her. He cocked one eyebrow. “Scoundrel?”

Slash. Parry. Counter. Emma backed towards the other staircase. “Pain in the ass.”

Killian gave a one-shouldered shrug, as if he wasn’t in the middle of a duel. “I’ve been called that, too.”

He pressed forward, their blades clashing again and again as Emma began to back up the stairs. It was easier this time. She felt more on balance, her aura stronger again, a little more room to breathe between fielding his attacks.

“Do the rest of them know?” she asked. “They don’t, do they?”

“I haven’t asked.” She couldn’t tell if his nonchalance was real or feigned.

It had to be feigned. She was holding an ace now. Vampires were notoriously elitist and protective of their little society. If they found out that Killian wasn’t one of them, they would turn on him... and there was a whole bunch of them in the building. All she had to do was get within earshot.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” she told him, taking another two steps.

He flashed a determined grin and followed. “My favourite kind.”

She almost—almost—grinned back. She caught it just in time, but it was a close thing. Relief was still roaring through her like a wave. She didn’t want to examine the reason for it, so she swung at him again.

He parried almost lazily, bringing his blade up and forcing her to withdraw again. “As for you,” he said, “it’s personal. Isn’t it?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He gritted his teeth, smiled past it. “I wasn’t referring to me. But this is a personal matter for you, and I can’t help wondering why. You don’t even know Wendy, so it can’t be that. What is it?”

She debated denying it, withholding answers just like he was. But he wasn’t a vampire. She hadn’t been wrong about him. And that meant that maybe, just maybe, telling him the truth would make a difference.

Anyway, she wasn’t petty. And _she_ wasn’t a liar, not even by omission. “Neal,” she said. “He’s in trouble, and Wendy is the only one who can help.”

Killian paused, sword in low guard, apparently thrown. “Neal? Your boy’s father?”

“Yeah. He’s—trapped. It’s complicated. He’s—”

“Trapped in another realm,” Killian suggested. He looked stunned.

Emma stared at him. “Yeah. How did you—”

Killian shook his head, a storm of emotion crossing his features. “Baelfire?”

* * *

His insides had frozen. He’d never asked. He’d met the boy—Henry, a bright, smiling lad of eleven, and bloody hell, his irreverent grin had even reminded Killian of Baelfire, hadn’t it? But it hadn’t occurred to him to make the connection.

Wendy had told him that she was looking for Bae, that he was likely trapped in some other realm. It had been tearing at him for days, the urge to help warring with his need for vengeance.

And if Baelfire was the lad’s father, then that meant—

He didn’t know what it meant. But he knew that neither Gold nor Pan would ignore it if they ever found out. And Emma would never walk away from this, not with her son indirectly involved.

“Hook,” Emma said, and she sounded puzzled. She had made it to the top of the stairs, regarding him with caution and maybe a hint of worry. “Killian?”

“Bloody hell,” he said. He kept his sword in guard position and joined her on the landing. Something inside him seemed to be withering. “Henry’s father is Baelfire?”

“I guess.” She shrugged. “I always knew him as Neal. I didn’t know he had another name until he disappeared and I found out that he’s Gold’s son, and—I guess you knew that.”

The name was a stab of anger in his chest. “Aye.”

He took a step towards her, and she stepped back. They circled each other on the landing, and he knew she was still looking for an opening. Her eyes narrowed. “Your turn. Why do _you_ have her? You don’t even need a blood slave.”

He felt his jaw clench, along with that stupid urge to explain again. He was used to people giving him dirty looks, treating him with disdain, but not her. Oh, they’d had their differences, betrayed each other... but she’d never looked at him like he was scum.

Granted, if he really had bought Wendy as a blood slave, he would be scum. And he had done his best to make it appear that way. Still, she knew him, didn’t she? She knew he wouldn’t do a thing like that.

_Like you knew she wouldn’t work for Pan?_

He hated that voice. It was far too conscientious. Another thing he hadn’t had to contend with in a long time. But now there was Emma, and Wendy, and apparently, Bae and Bae’s _son_ and...

“I don’t,” he said shortly. “She’s here by choice.”

“Really.” Emma’s expression and tone both made it clear that she didn’t believe him. It jarred his temper.

“Aye, some women do in fact enjoy my company,” he spat. He took a sliding step towards her, aiming a cut at her right side.

She blocked it, steel scraping and ringing as she parried. “Yeah? Can’t see why.”

It stung more than he liked to admit. “Perhaps that’s because you insist on fighting. There are far more enjoyable activities we could be engaging in.”

She smiled, overly sweet. “That mean you yield?”

“Hardly.”

Her smile vanished. “Let me talk to her.”

He couldn’t. Emma would tell her about Bae, and Wendy would go to try and save him, and that would be the end of Killian’s plans. He needed Wendy. He’d spent too much time, come too far, to give up now.

Hadn’t he?

* * *

_He’d half-expected her to leave as soon as they were done. Instead, she lay beside him, his arm wrapped around her. He stroked the soft skin over her ribs, struggling to believe what he was feeling._

_She stirred, bracing herself on an elbow and looking up at him. He knew what she was about to say, and he found that he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want her to leave. He wanted to hold her in his arms until morning, keep her in his bed and his life for as long as he could._

_But he knew better. This was temporary, it had to be. Emma guarded her heart fiercely, and he knew that he wasn’t good for her. He wasn’t good for anyone. Vengeance was no longer the only thing that mattered to him, anger no longer all he felt. But it wasn’t enough, and he knew it. Fury still stirred every time he thought of Gold, and as for Pan... the man had held him in thrall for centuries._

_He smiled, perhaps a little sadly, and reached up to stroke her cheek._

_She sighed and turned her head into his touch. Then she kissed him—a chaste peck on the lips, a goodbye kiss. She drew back, stopped, kissed him again. He closed his eyes and let his hand slip over her cheek into her hair, leaned his forehead against hers, trying to memorise every detail of this moment._

_She kissed him again, and he returned it, with interest. His heart was racing again, his hand in her hair, his blunted wrist stroking along her back as she leaned into him, desperate for one more touch, one more kiss, one more—_

_“Killian,” she breathed against his lips. “I—mhmm—”_

_“I want you,” he said, the words spilling out of him. “Bloody hell, I still want you, so much—”_

_She cut him off with another kiss, and slid her leg across his hips._

_Afterwards, he lay there, trying to catch his breath as she moved off him and away._

_“I should...” She looked hesitant, and he didn’t know how to read the look in her eyes. Guilt? Worry? Hope?_

_He wanted to ask her to stay. He wanted to make a stupid joke about not being done with her, or just blurt out everything he felt. But that wouldn’t be fair. He had nothing to offer her, not when part of him still wanted to tear Gold limb from limb. “Aye,” he said softly._

_“Right.” She nodded, and turned away to get dressed._

_He swallowed, and let her go._

* * *

She knew the answer even before he said, “No.” It was written all over his face, his stance.

“So she _is_ a prisoner.”

His eyes flashed dangerously. “I’ll admit I didn’t ask her before I _bought_ her from that swine, but she didn’t complain either.”

“Well, I’m not leaving without her,” she said firmly.

“Then I suppose you aren’t leaving,” he countered. “I can have the spare room made up.”

No innuendo this time; no salacious offer to share his quarters. He was angry—at her.

She’d seen Killian angry often enough to know the different flavours of it. This one had hurt hidden behind it. That bitterness he got when someone saw the worst in him.

She’d been right—this wasn’t what it seemed. He wasn’t a vampire, and whatever his reasons for buying and keeping Wendy, they had nothing to do with blood. And she wasn’t going to figure it out by fighting. She might have a chance to get through to him. All she had to do was—the thought made her squirm—open up a little. Reach out.

She swallowed. She’d been so righteously furious with him when she’d thought that he’d held things back from her...

“You know, when the guy gave me your name,” she said, “I thought it had to be a trick. Or a mistake.”

Killian attacked again, and she caught it, deflecting his blow to the side. “I didn’t,” she went on, gasping a little, “ _want_ to believe it.”

His expression flickered. The line of his jaw softened, the furrow between his brows fading a little. He shook his head. “But you did.”

“Not exactly,” she said honestly. “I came to get answers.”

“You really think I’d keep a slave?” he demanded, fury in his eyes. Steel rang and sparked as their blades clashed again, and again, both looking for an opening, neither finding it.

“No, I don’t,” Emma managed, anger rising again. Care she might, but sometimes he really was an idiot. “But if you’re gonna get mad at people for believing the lies you put out there, maybe you shouldn’t be lying!”

Their swords clashed again, and this time, neither of them pulled back. Emma glared at Killian past the blades, and pushed.

* * *

Killian looked into her eyes, saw the fury there, and the pirate in him took note.

He let his grip slacken just a little, enough to make her think she was winning. She leaned into the bind, anger lending her strength. He waited another half-second to let her commit a bit more. Then he pulled away, using the momentum to swing his blade around and bringing his hook up to catch hers as she tried stab back at him.

With her blade trapped in the hook, he pointed his at her throat.

“I win,” he said, grinning.

“This isn’t a game,” she spat.

He pressed a little closer, as much as he dared with a blade between them. “No, it’s not.”

For a moment, they stayed like that, both breathing hard, tension thick between them. Music echoed down the hallway below, a slower waltz now. Killian’s right leg was pressed against Emma, right up to his hip. He could feel her breath whisper against his skin. So close.

She had a point, he knew. He _had_ lied, and he was good at lying.

It was Emma who broke the moment. “I know what you’re doing.”

What _was_ he doing? He wasn’t sure. “Do you?”

“Yeah. This is about your little feud with Pan. Or Gold. Or both?” She was watching him. He didn’t know what she saw in his face, but it seemed to serve as confirmation. Damn her, anyway. “What’s Wendy got to do with it?”

“It’s not a feud,” he said. The words sounded feeble even to him, like a child insisting that his game was real.

“Feud, vengeance, whatever.” She wasn’t impressed. She never had been. She didn’t even look scared to have his sword at her throat. He wanted to put it down to her being tough, but it was more than that. She knew—trusted—that he wouldn’t hurt her.

He swallowed.

“Killian...” His name. There was a time, after they’d first met, she’d always called him “Hook”. These days, more often than not, he was just Killian. He’d tried not to read anything into it. But maybe... maybe it was there all the same, whether he read it or not.

“He’s Henry’s dad,” Emma went on, as earnest as he’d ever seen her. “And Wendy is the only one who can bring him home. They have some kind of—I don’t know, some connection, and—I need her help.”

Her eyes were wide in appeal, and he could feel it tugging at him. Baelfire.

If he told Wendy, she would jump at the chance to save him. She would leave, and Killian would lose his shot.

Just like every other shot. He’d failed every time he’d tried; lately, he hadn’t even tried anymore. He’d escaped Pan’s dominion, he’d met Emma, he’d saved more than a few people from the blood trade... he’d begun to build a new life for himself. He had people he cared about. For the first time in centuries, he had a choice, and a chance.

Much as he might want to—or tried to delude himself into wanting to—he couldn’t go back to the man he’d been before. And another boy might lose his father if he kept trying.

His blade wavered, just for a moment.

Emma moved. She ducked away from his sword, and an invisible wall slammed into him, knocking him backwards. He crashed into the banister behind him. Wood cracked, but did not break. Pain shot along his spine. He flung his arms out, managing to catch himself against the banister without dropping his sword.

Emma retrieved her own sword, pointed it at him—and hesitated. “Sorry.”

“Bloody hell, woman.” He staggered upright, wincing as his back complained. That was going to be a bruise tomorrow.

“You okay?” She actually looked worried.

“I’ll live.”

“Didn’t mean you hit you that hard. Sorry.”

With a start, he realised that the fury that had fairly sparked at him before was gone. She still had a blade pointed at him, but their encounter had gone from a fight to more of a contest. Someone else might have laid down their weapon at this point, but not Emma. She wanted to win. Typical.

Then again, he sure as hell wasn’t about to lay his sword down, either.

“How do you know?” he asked, and he wasn’t sure if he was looking for a loophole or reassurance. “About Wendy being able to save Bae?”

Emma hesitated. “Gold told me.”

The name was automatic oil on the flames of his anger. “Gold wants Wendy dead.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

He shook his head. “I’m not letting her walk into that.”

Emma growled—actually growled, a frustrated noise somewhere between exasperation and anger that stirred his blood—and charged. He spun out of the way—and kept spinning, as _something_ pushed him towards the wall. He braced himself with his hook, a much gentler slam this time. He turned—

And froze as cold steel caressed his throat. A moment, then he carefully turned all the way around, raising both arms. Emma stood a sword length away, blade pointed steadily at him. She raised her eyebrows. “Keep talking.”

He glowered at her. She merely smiled.

“Wendy,” he started, and had to clear his throat. “Wendy is a threat to Gold. She’s the only one who can make him mortal.”

Emma’s mouth opened slightly, and he watched her put it together at once. “So that’s why Pan wants her. She’s a weapon.”

“Aye.”

“And that’s why _you_ want her,” she went on, eyes narrowing.

“Not entirely.” He smirked. “She’s also bait for Pan.”

“Yeah?” She glanced meaningfully at the hollow of his throat, reminding him of his current predicament. “How’d that work out?”

He stayed determinedly cheerful. “I can’t complain so far.”

She was exasperated. “That’s because you don’t know when you’re beaten.”

“I’m _not_.” The words were out before he could think better of them, propelled entirely by defiance. He brought his hook down on her sword and darted out behind it, bringing his sword into guard position again.

Emma mirrored him, still looking exasperated. “Don’t you ever give up?”

“No. Do you?”

“Hell no.” They circled, blades pointed, looking for openings.

“You realise,” he said, trying a stab that she deflected, “that Neal is likely bait, too.”

“That it’s a trap for Wendy so Gold can capture her or kill her?” Emma threw him a disdainful look. She attacked, a simple over-arm swing; he blocked it and moved to counter, but she’d already stepped back into low guard. “Yeah, I figured that out, thanks.”

He knew that it wouldn’t matter; trap or not, she wouldn’t abandon Baelfire—Neal—to his fate. For that matter, he didn’t think he could, either.

She was getting tired. He could see it in the way she moved. For that matter, he could feel fatigue pulling at his own bones, movement no longer effortless. They were going through the motions, both too stubborn to give in, looking for answers more than the advantage.

Killian aimed another stab at her right side. She parried, knocking his blade aside—to the left. He took a long step around to her right, bringing his blade to the left. She stopped pushing against his sword; the angles had changed, and all she’d accomplish would be to push his blade into her side.

Instead, she let her sword tip drop and brought her hilt up. His blade slid along hers, harmless for a moment, and she lunged for him.

She grabbed his hand, fingers closing around his wrist. He brought his hook up reflexively; she dropped her sword and caught his brace with her other hand. They wrestled, the sword between them.

Killian was stronger, and they both knew it. Emma’s eyes spat fire at him as he fought her hold, brought his elbow up as he pressed closer to her. But she fought just as dirty as he did. She hooked a leg around his and tugged. He stumbled, cursed, lost his balance.

They went down together, Emma landing on top of him with a grunt. Pain ricocheted through his body. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost track of his sword.

He found it moments later, pointed at his own throat. Emma held it there, grunting again as she righted herself. She straddled him, and he lay still, both arms raised up at the elbows.

“Okay,” Emma gasped out. “That’s it.”

“That was not a fair move.”

“Really? _You’re_ going to lecture _me_ about fair moves in a fight?”

He couldn’t argue with that, and grinned at her instead. “Touché.”

“We,” she said, “are wasting time here. If you did this to draw Pan here, what are the chances someone other than me’s gonna come looking for her?”

He would have shrugged, if his position had allowed for it. He did the best he could with his expression. “I’d say reasonably good.”

“Right. So you’re gonna keep wasting time fighting me?”

He smirked. “If you’d prefer to do something else, all you have to do is say the word.”

He regretted it the moment he said it. It made him too aware of their position, her legs on either side of his torso, leaning over him. Her hair had mostly escaped from the silver clip now, falling wildly around her face, and he wanted to reach out and brush it back. He wanted to pull her closer and just stay here. Coax a smile from her, lose his breath kissing her, not fighting her. To hell with Pan, and Gold, and all of it.

He thought she’d scoff at him. Instead, she smiled, a little wistful. “I don’t want to fight.”

Gods above, neither did he. Fighting was the last thing he wanted now.

Maybe a _little_ wrestling. A friendly tackle onto the bed. That would be all right.

But he was still angry—not at her, but at Gold, and at Pan, for what they had done. He had tried to leave it behind, but he couldn’t. If anything, knowing that they had dragged Neal and Wendy—and by extension, Emma and even her son—into their feud made it worse.

A memory stirred—Emma, full of righteous fury, determined to save the people she loved no matter what it took.

When had he started conflating anger with vengeance? Abandoning his quest for revenge didn’t mean leaving all of his anger behind, too. It was human. It was what drove him, kept him upright, kept him fighting. It had got him this far. He could use it, like Emma did.

He let out a breath, and felt the ghosts of his past go with it.

“Neither do I, love.”

* * *

Emma hesitated for another moment, watching Killian’s face. For all that she’d come to know him, she still couldn’t predict which way he’d turn. She could hope, but not know. But trust had to start somewhere; faith required a first step.

Magic hummed in her veins, back under her control.

She tossed the sword aside. “Okay. Let’s team up.”

Killian didn’t move. He looked up at her, eyes searching hers. “Why?”

“Well, for one thing, I’d let you get up.”

He smirked. “I’m quite happy where I am.”

“ _Killian_.”

“ _Emma_.”

Her name from his lips was a jolt. He rarely called her Emma. Except for that night, when it had fallen from those lips of his, again and again, whispered like a prayer, shouted brokenly, sighed softly between kisses pressed to her shoulder...

“I meant,” he said, “why do _you_ want to team up?”

With an effort, she dragged her mind back to the matter at hand. “We want the same thing. Right? Keep Wendy safe, find Neal and get him out of there.”

He opened his mouth, took a breath, closed it again. It wasn’t what he’d said he wanted, and she knew it. And she watched as he realised that she knew it, and had said it anyway. He swallowed. “Right.”

Something warm and heady swelled in her chest. “Pretty sure we’ve got a better chance of that together.”

“Together,” he repeated softly, eyes still on her. He had beautiful eyes, the blue made brighter by his dark lashes, every emotion reflected in them. They weren’t sparking with anger anymore. Now, they were warm with something else, something that made her pulse flutter as he glanced down to where her hands were braced on his shoulders, then back at her.

With a start, she realised that they were also a lot closer than they had been only a minute ago. She was doing it again, leaning in towards him bit by bit, drawn by that—whatever it was about him.

“So, we,” she said, and had to clear her throat. “We have a deal.”

He hesitated. “Swan... I’m not going to say I won’t kill either of them if I get the chance.”

She shrugged. She wasn’t feeling all that charitable towards Gold and Pan herself. “Probably got a better shot at that together, too.”

He looked at her for another moment, then his mouth pulled into a heart-stopping crooked smile. “You are a marvel. Magnificent. Have I mentioned that?”

She did her best to roll her eyes, but it was a lot harder when he was genuine about his flirting, when she knew that he meant the ridiculous things he said. _That_ was going to be echoing in her head tonight, and probably for several days to come.

_Pathetic_ , a part of her scoffed. It was mostly drowned out by the rest of her, giddy with relief and some other things she couldn’t—didn’t want to—name.

“So we have a deal?” she asked again.

“Aye, that we do.”

“Great.”

A pause, then Killian cocked an eyebrow and flashed that smile again. “Comfortable, are you, love?”

“What?” She was still straddling him. And she _was_ comfortable. And a few other things too. He was solid and warm, muscles flexing slightly under her palms as he breathed, half his chest exposed by his shirt right beneath her. Her cheeks grew warm. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t mean you had to move,” he said as she clambered off him.

She couldn’t quite hide her smile as she turned back to him. He made to get up, bracing himself on his elbows, and winced.

“What?” she asked.

“I feel like I got slammed into a wall,” he said, the last word coming out as a groan. “Twice.”

“I said I was sorry.” But she leaned over him, stretching out a hand. He took it and let her pull him to his feet.

He staggered a little, and it left him standing far too close to her. “Thank you.”

“Sure.” Her hand was still holding his. “So. You, uh, need to get back to the ball?”

He shook his head. “Hell with that. They can keep themselves entertained.”

“Then we should go talk to Wendy.”

He heaved a resigned sigh, playing up his disappointment. “All business, aren’t you, love.”

“Nope.” She smirked at him, gratified at the surprise in his face as she added, “But business comes first.”

“Fair enough.” He smirked back. “You know, there’s a rather lewd joke that comes to mind about who comes sec—”

She interrupted him with a groan and a nudge to his shoulder. “Keep talking and it won’t be you.”

He let go of her hand in order to retrieve and sheathe his sword, and tossed hers to her too. “Don’t tease, Swan. Bad form.”

That was honest, too. A part of Emma whispered that she should withdraw, keep the distance between them, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Not when he was looking at her like that. Not when, even in anger, he hadn’t walked away. She hadn’t realised how much she’d been hurting until it stopped, leaving this light, giddy feeling inside her, like she could fly away.

Killian turned to the hallway that led away from the landing, and offered her his arm with a wry smile, as if he expected her to refuse it. Emma met his gaze, reached out, and took his hand.

This time, neither of them let go.


End file.
